


Settlement

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Flash Fic Night Prompts [50]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Interpol - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 06:23:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13676076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: It isn’t the first time this happened and, honestly, it’s not the most frustrating either. The Youtube fake fire is a bit much, though.





	Settlement

**Author's Note:**

> I liked this prompt very much! (As evidenced by how it’s like. Triple the size of my usual FFN stories.)
> 
> It could probably use a bit of polishing to be a better story, but my unofficial rule for these things is ‘write, spell check, post’ unless the first version is truly horrendous (if I start treating my Flash Fic prompts like my longer stories, I won’t be able to call them flash fics at all tbh) so…have this.

“I hope you like carbonara,” Solo’s voice announces from the kitchen, “I couldn’t find the ingredients for anything fancier.”

 

Illya, still halfway into the hallway with his hand on his gun, takes a second to sigh and press at the headache budding between his eyes. Solo must have ascribed some sort of meaning to the silence, because he steps out of the kitchen with a shit eating grin and the most garish apron Illya has ever seen in his life. And that includes the cowboys and cacti model the man wore when he first did this, back in Berlin.

 

“You really need to take better care of your kitchen, you know.”

 

Illya gives him the kind of flat stare that makes his colleagues pause and the new recruits reconsider talking to him altogether. It would be more efficient if Solo hadn’t been immune to it from the beginning, but just because the stupid American doesn’t have any sense of shame or decency doesn’t mean Illya needs to indulge him. He does holster his gun, though. He can’t shoot an unarmed suspect, especially one without a violent history, and Solo missed far too many opportunities to hurt him to play that card now.

 

“You’re an international thief,” Illya tells the man as he closes the door behind him, “I don’t take suggestions from you.”

“International _art_ thief,” Solo corrects, walking back to the stove, “and you did ditch the bow tie.”

 

Illya refuses to raise to the bait, but Solo is just conceited enough to take any kind of answer as a confirmation of guilt, anyway. It wouldn’t rankle so much if he were wrong but, well. Illya did have doubts about the bow tie before Rome, and Solo may be many things, but he’s definitely not tasteless. Nothing in the world could make him outright admit that, though.

He sighs.

 

“Why?”

“You forgot?” Solo tosses over his shoulder with mock hurt. “Tovarishch, I’m offended.”

 

Illya rolls his eyes and, because he knows he won’t have peace until he agrees to the stupid masquerade, goes to fetch cutlery in the drawers and set up a table for two.

 

“Oh, dining room, please,” Solo says when he realizes Illya is going for the kitchen table. “I’m not having an anniversary dinner on a Formica table.”

“It’s a practical material,” he says.

 

Illya hasn’t learned enough French to catch the exact meaning of Solo’s reply, but the disdainful tone is easy to hear. He ignores it, leaving two plates with Solo and going to set the rest of the table instead. He can’t quite restrain a scandalizes noise when he realizes Solo pulled up a ten-hours loop of burning logs on the TV.

 

“It _is_ an anniversary, Tovarishch. Did you expect me to put soccer on?”

“I hear Marseilles is playing Paris,” Illya replies while he tries to remember on which side of the plate the fork goes in Italian etiquette. “The whole office talked about that today.”

“And not me?”

 

Solo has appeared in the living room with two plates in hand, apron tossed off to reveal the pin-stripped three piece suit underneath: a single-breasted navy thing that cost as much as Illya’s current couch. It’s still an Anderson & Sheppard, though, and Illya suspects half the reason is because the shop is discreet enough not to let Solo’s appointment hours slip out to Interpol until it’s too late or entirely unavoidable.

 

“Clearly,” Solo concludes as he sets the plates side by side on the coffee table, “I need to put in some effort. I was thinking about a Modigliani, next time.”

 

Solo hates Modigliani, and even if he didn’t Illya knows better than to expect a straight admission of intent from him. He makes a note to mention it to the team just in case, though, see if there’s anything more behind the reference than mere fancy. It isn’t as if they’ve had much to work with these past few months, anyway. Illya hasn’t heard anything new on Solo in weeks before tonight.

 

“Going soft, Solo?” He asks, frowning at the shiver of dislike that courses through his chest at the thought.

“Thinking of retiring, actually.”

 

Illya knows he shouldn’t have turned so fast. At the very least, he should have avoided knocking his empty wine glass to the ground. He _has_ been chasing Solo for the past five years or so now, though. Hearing the whole thing might be in vain is bound to be a shock. A rather nasty one, too, if the rhythm of his heart is to be believed.

 

“I’m forty-one—”

“Thirty-nine,” Illya corrects, just to remind the man he knows him better than that.

“I’m at a turning point of life is what I’m saying, Tovarishch,” Solo continues as if he hadn’t noticed the interruption. “Believe me when I say this comes as a complete surprise, but these days I’ve found myself longing for some form of…long-term presence, shall we say. Much as I love my job—”

“It’s not a real job.”

 

Illya doesn’t realize he’s been expecting Solo to respond by defending his thieving until what comes out of the man’s mouth instead is:

 

“Yes, well, it still keeps me too busy for an actual social life.”

 

Illya stares at Solo, the shock of revelation pulling sarcasm out of his reach.

 

“You’re serious,” he says.

 

Solo smiles, shrugs, and digs into his spaghetti like he didn’t just drop the mother of all bombshells in Illya’s lap. The radius is extremely relative, Illya knows, but still! Five years of mostly single-minded pursuit took over _his_ life as well. He can’t even comprehend the thought of a life without it, yet. It’s too vast, too abrupt, too…damn.

 

“I have what it takes to vanish,” Solo continues after a few mouthfuls. “I could be gone tomorrow.”

 

Well, _that_ bit, at least, was expected. It doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, though, and Illya reaches for the wine bottle Solo must have brought from the outside, fills his over sized glass to the brim, and drains it in one go. His fingers shiver when he’s done, and he doesn’t feel any more settled, but at least it catches Solo’s attention.

 

“So this is goodbye, then?” Illya manages through gritted teeth.

 

The way Solo sets his fork and knife down on the table should probably not be that satisfying, but then Illya gave up on ‘probably should not’s somewhere between the third time Solo sneaked in his hotel room for dinner and the first time he got Illya a Christmas gift. (It was a pair of silver cuff-links with a hammer and sickle on them. The box included a receipt with the words ‘the things I do for you’ in Solo’s neat cursive at the bottom.)

He hasn’t relented in his efforts to catch the man, far from it! He’s got a couple of broken ribs and a messy cut on his hand to attest for Solo’s messier escape. It’s just that somewhere in the past five years, his disdain for Solo shifted to grudging respect, to appreciation, to the sort of admiration that comes with worthy competition. He still wants to catch him, he’s just much less likely to gloat about it when he does.

 

“It can be,” Solo says after a long time. “If you want.”

 

He still looks infuriatingly put together. Meanwhile, Illya’s hands ache with how hard he clutches his fork, and he’s fairly sure he’s about to break his teeth or something. It’s still a wildly inappropriate reaction, but at least a minute ago it didn’t _hurt_.

 

“I…I would miss you, though,” Solo says at last.

 

This time, when Illya turns around, he finds the man looking down at his plate, carefully chewing around a mouthful of pasta. Illya stomps down on the ludicrous bubble of golden hope in his chest and asks:

 

“Are you saying this because you’re hoping to get out of prison?”

“Please,” Solo protests, the veneer of self-assured sarcasm sliding back into place, “I’m not naive enough to think that’s possible. And like I said, I don’t need your help to get out of a sentence.”

 

He pauses, settling his cutlery down on the side of his plate and giving his fingernails a careful look before he looks Illya in the eyes and continues:

 

“If, however, you aren’t too tired of my presence, I would be…amenable. To negotiation.”

 

Kissing Solo right then and there is just about the antithesis of professional behavior, and once he writes it down in his report, Illya will hear about it until the end of his days. He’ll be damned if Solo doesn’t make it worth his while, though.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and reviews still make me want to keep writing <3


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